


The Idiot

by immediateinfatuation



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Implied Eremika, Implied Sexual Content, jeankasa - Freeform, takes place during the 850-854 timeskip, to be more specefic most of this takes place around 852 ish??? then towards the end it's 854
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immediateinfatuation/pseuds/immediateinfatuation
Summary: In which Mikasa's version of an unhealthy coping mechanism consists of making out with Jean every night while Eren is across the ocean in Marley.





	The Idiot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [searchingforvolans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforvolans/gifts).



> i was originally gonna post this for jeankasa weekend (which is just around the corner yo!) but i have other one shots in store so i thought i'd gift this to my good friend instead! we haven't been friends for very long but i can't imagine my life without her! we have so much in common i can't help but wonder whether we were twins separated at birth! anyway, thank you, mika, for being such an amazing internet friend!

Approximately five years had elapsed since what was perhaps--no, what was unquestionably--the most cataclysmic day of Jean Kirstein’s life.

No, it was not the day he stumbled across the corpse of his best friend, who was also admittedly the only of the sort at the time, nor was it the day he, albeit reluctantly, took his first human life, but rather, the day Mikasa trimmed her hair mere moments after he had complimented it, ironically.

But perhaps that was an over exaggeration, as half a decade had crept past and Jean had yet to jolt awake, his torso slick with perspiration and his heart hammering against his chest in a seemingly unceasing rhythm, consequential of an incubus, the likes of which involved a preteen Mikasa raising a pair of scissors to her ravishing raven locks and snipping away until all that remained was the considerably more compliant, although considerably less captivating, chin-length bob that wasn’t necessarily chin-length anymore, for it now rested atop her shoulders. 

At least, that’s where it was situated whenever they weren’t alone, when Jean’s fingers weren’t winding through it like a needle winds through a thread, when their agape mouths weren’t synchronously moving against one another’s, savoring each other; when her fingertips weren’t tracing his scars and converging them as if they were constellations in the night sky, each one with its own myth that illustrated how it came to be.

If he was being honest with himself, Jean preferred her hair splayed across a pillow, her fingers winding through his hair, her mouth widening only to moan his name at haphazard intervals, his fingertips stroking the scar below her eye, inching downwards until they were stroking something else entirely. But that had occurred only once, after they had a bit too much to drink and the unhappiness Mikasa had been withholding had become a bit too intolerable. 

She was depressed, that much was certain. Although she tried, and unremittingly so, to conceal them with makeup she borrowed from Hitch, the bags beneath her eyes were utterly unmistakable. There was also the sharp hollowness in her cheeks to consider, as well as the rib bones Jean had noticed the night he beheld her bare body, although the fact that she had been eating less and less had been the last thing on his mind at the time. 

He didn’t need a specialist to ascertain the source of her despondency; he knew it derived from Eren’s absence.

Mikasa was mindful of where he was (Marley) and what he was doing (fighting in the Mid-East War whilst impersonating an Eldian soldier), but, if anything, all this knowledge only exacerbated her melancholy, and, in addition, her consternation, for at any moment her adoptive brother could breathe his last, and she might never know. But then again, it had almost always been that way, even back when he still coexisted with Jean and Mikasa and everybody else on Paradis.

Jean was aware, and painfully so, that she was permitting their presumed relationship (if one could even call it that) solely so she could share her sorrow with someone else, that he was nothing more than a vessel for her to project her heartache into. In fact, he had suspected this since the very beginning, when she had first crashed her unsurprisingly soft lips against his just as unsurprisingly cracked ones outside his room that night, shoving him further and further backwards until finally his back collided with his mahogany door. He responded readily (he had spent the better part of the preceding five years of his life fantasizing about this specific circumstance, after all), his hand tugging her even closer against him, as if they were so much as a millimeter apart she would vanish, much like she did in his dreams; his other hand fumbling for the doorknob. The door creaked open eventually, and once it did, they tumbled inside, Mikasa landing atop a scarlet-cheeked Jean and her hair bouncing back, then forth, from the impact. His mouth widened to inquire just why the particular occurrence was occurring, but luckily for him, and unluckily for the enquiry he never uttered, her mouth met his once more, which is where it remained until Mikasa’s kisses decreased in fervency and no sooner after they did was she softly snoring against his chest, drool oozing from her lips and seeping into his tattered sleep shirt. 

She had avoided his gaze all throughout breakfast the following morning, then during lunch and dinner, until at last, when she was assured that nobody, apart from them, of course, were awake, she tapped her knuckles against his door stilly, and the previous night’s cycle repeated itself. 

And so it would for days, days that eventually became weeks, weeks that eventually became months, months that eventually became years. Mikasa was taciturn as always, and Jean was his usual, loquacious self. For weeks, she had forbade him to speak, stifling his each and every utterance with her kisses, which were as addictive as they were recurrent. It was months before she finally allowed his voice to pierce through the silence that had enwreathed them for so long, and, interestingly enough, the first full sentence that escaped his lips did not concern why she surrendered herself to him night after night, but instead, the length of her hair.

She had suggested she let it grow, admitting that she ached to style it the way her mother, and eventually, Carla Yeager, used to (her femininity was unveiling itself more and more each day, he noticed), and even though the thought that in months he would be coiling his fingers through even more inches of her silky locks inspired him to persevere more than he ever had before, he deemed himself undeserving of any more of her; thus urging her to trim her hair into its current style.

It wasn’t as if she was bald; her hair was still there, the only difference was that it now reached the nape of her neck. Her bangs still hung in her face, of course; she certainly wouldn’t have looked the same if they weren’t, but then again, if she was indeed completely hairless, he would’ve irrefutably still recognized the woman he had spent the past half decade pining after, the woman who, although they would kiss for hours every night, would never love him the way he loved her. 

Instead of insisting she project her grief elsewhere, develop a healthier coping mechanism, one that wouldn’t result in him sobbing muffledly into his pillow long after she had left, he allowed her inside his room every night nevertheless like the idiot he was, accepted her every touch, no matter how chaste or venereal; and, like the idiot he was, he reciprocated every time, regardless of the cognizance that the impermeant paradise that had been ongoing for years would conclude the day--no, the instant--Eren returned. 

And sure enough, she wasn’t waiting outside his door the evening Eren returned from Marley with noticeably longer brown hair and slight stubble above his upper lip and along the bottom of his chin, or the evening after that. But in spite of this, Jean would linger outside his bedroom throughout the subsequent nights, all the while convincing himself that the continuous creaking that emanated from Mikasa’s room was nothing more than vermin frolicking within the thin walls.

Jean Kirstein may have been an idiot, but he wasn’t that much of one.


End file.
